I PLUCK'D a rose to deck her breast,
The brightest blood-red rose of June;
It could not tinge its place of rest,
But wither'd there and faded soon.
So Love and sweetness vainly strove
To win a tint — a throb to steal,
For Love is only touch'd by Love,
And that, she says, she cannot feel.

She took the winter's white snowflake,
Upon my glowing heart to lay;
The inward fire it could not slake,
But melted all in tears away.
So love lives on in spite of all,
And hope leaps up again, again,
Forgetful of their grievous fall,
Unconquer'd by her cold disdain.
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